


while all of our branches entwine

by javelinas



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: M/M, bear with me here people, i don't want to spoil anything, more characters and tags to come as we go along, this is going to get intense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-10-07 05:25:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10353198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/javelinas/pseuds/javelinas
Summary: “I love you,” Paul whispered between slow, gentle kisses across Daryl’s shoulders, along the edges of his scars. “I love you. I love you, Daryl."And I know you love me too, you asshole.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Weeds or Wildflowers" by Parsonsfield
> 
> Beta by pythosis and tynderfox, who rock.

When the snow had started falling, Daryl had thought it was ash. Thought that finally the sad remaining scraps of the world were burning away, until a fat, floating flake landed cold on his cheek, melted fast, and ran down into his beard like a tear.

It had been snowing all day. The Hilltop residents had all come outside, smiling, to stomp around in the white slush and fling soggy snowballs at each other. 

From his perch on the guard tower near the gates, Daryl watched Enid sneak up behind Carl and cram a handful of snow down his coat. Carl shrieked--a manly shriek, Carl was almost a man now, and Daryl felt old. Carl chased Enid down, tackling her into the snow, pinning her and planting kisses on her face. 

Children ran in circles, catching snowflakes on their tongues. Judith was among them; she stopped and waved up at Daryl, her cheeks rosy and sweet, golden curls peeking from under her hat.

Daryl waved back, but couldn't find a smile for her. He drew the collar of his coat up around his neck and turned his eyes back to the road that led to the Hilltop gates, squinting through the snow for any glimpse of headlights.

Paul should have been back yesterday.

————

_“You'll be asleep by the time we get in.” Paul pulled on his gloves._

_Daryl lifted the box of food Enid had brought them onto the counter and started sorting through it. “Nah, I'll be up.”_

_“Daryl Dixon, if you aren't naked in that bed when I get back—"_

_Daryl flung an apple at him. Paul caught it easily and took a big bite, smiling with juice dripping over his lips._

_“Thanks for the snack.”_

_Moments like this, Daryl could only sit and stare at Paul. Marvel at him, like a mountain range or a vast canyon, something so incredible it ached to think about it too much._

_Paul licked his lips and took another bite. “Why are you smiling?”_

_Daryl set the apples aside and stalked over to Paul. “C’mere.”_

_“Wha—?”_

_Daryl kissed him, open and wet, grabbing fistfuls of his hair and sucking away the apple juice. When he pulled back, Paul stared at him dazedly._

_“What was that for all of a sudden?”_

_Daryl moved his hands to cup Paul’s face, rubbed his fingers through the scratch of his beard. “Nothin’. Just like ya, that’s all.”_

_Paul smiled, a little wobbly now, and rested his forehead against Daryl’s._

_“You’re making me not want to leave, Mr. Dixon.”_

_Daryl laid one more kiss on his nose, then pushed him away gently. “Go. Come back. Bring me socks. I’m gonna remind Tara too, so you ain’t got no excuse.”_

_“Have Maggie knit you some socks.”_

_“Shit’s itchy. Like the cotton ones better.”_

——————

Daryl had actually gone to bed naked last night. Hadn’t slept, listening for the guard's call to open the gates. Imagining Paul's face when he opened the trailer door and found Daryl there, not being a coward for once, giving Paul something he wanted, something sweet and uncomplicated.

——————

It was hard for Daryl, the sex. The soft wet _soclose_ part of them that happened in the dark.

Paul was the best thing he’d ever seen, ever felt. When Daryl laid his hands and his lips on Paul and Paul sparked to life, panting and clinging and moaning brokenly in Daryl’s ear, Daryl could sometimes believe that he was a good person. A good person, who could be trusted with the care and keeping of something precious.

Sometimes. 

And sometimes when he looked at Paul’s flushed face and wild eyes and perfect gasping mouth and thought _beautiful, he’s so beautiful,_ the voices of ghosts came, screaming in his head so loud there couldn’t be anything else. 

His father, hissing _faggot_ as he split the skin of Daryl’s back open. Merle, taunting, _ain’t nobody ever gonna love you but me, Darylina._ And the softest of them, but still somehow the worst, Daryl’s own voice, _ain’t shit, you ain’t shit, and everybody knows it. They just put up with you, and one day they’re gonna leave you all alone._

——————

After hours of dark and waiting and creeping-up embarrassment, Daryl had gotten up and dressed, feeling flushed and stupid, because _of course, of course any time he tried to be something good for Paul he couldn’t manage it._

Stepping outside for a smoke, he realized it was nearly dawn. He must have dozed off.

A small group had gathered outside. Rick and Michonne, who'd come to Hilltop for a few days to coordinate supply trades. Maggie, with baby Hershel hidden in her coat. Wes, an ax slung over his shoulder, his face somber.

They spoke softly, looking from the front gates to the sky. They turned to look at Daryl as he walked toward them. 

A prickle of fear crawled up Daryl's spine. 

"Ain't back yet?" Daryl thought maybe he sounded casual, unworried. Rick shook his head, rubbing at his chin the way he did when he was thinking. 

Maggie gazed at Daryl, bobbing Hershel a little, her eyes so kind and pitying that Daryl irrationally wanted to snap at her. "Anything could have held them up. I'm sure they'll be back soon."

Daryl had gone to the guard tower after that, and hadn't left. Puffed on a cigarette every time he stopped feeling sick from the previous one. The snow had started just after sunrise, keeping the light gray and soft, making it seem like time had stopped with nothing to mark the passing hours. 

Michonne brought him a cup of tea and a bowl of chicken stew around what Daryl guessed was probably noon. She laid a gentle hand on his shoulder before climbing back down. Didn't make him talk, which Daryl appreciated. He'd eaten the stew in the interest of not wasting the food, but his stomach was in knots and he hardly tasted it. 

He passed the time, at first, trying to imagine every benign, harmless thing that might have kept them from returning when they were supposed to. A flat tire. An unexpected herd they had to wait out. An un-looted store full of things that would make the extra stop worthwhile. Tara finding a yo-yo emporium, or a kite in a tree, or some other damn fool thing that she’d love. 

As the light got grayer and the afternoon got colder, Daryl tried not to think of anything at all.

It was nearly dark now. Daryl had been staring into the snow for so long he could still see it when he closed his eyes.

———————-

_“Daryl? You awake?”_

_Daryl hadn’t been, until Paul had spoken. He was a light sleeper, up and ready to fight or run at the slightest noise._

_They lay together in their bed, covered only by a thin sheet. Daryl curled on his side, Paul pressed up against his back, a strong hand gently gripping Daryl’s hip. The night air seeping through the trailer window was sticky and warm. Paul’s breath ghosted against Daryl’s neck, his mouth so close Daryl could feel the tickle of his beard._

_“I think you’re awake.”_

_There was no urgency in Paul’s voice, no hint of danger in the air. Daryl tried to keep his breathing even and slow, to not move a muscle or tense up, not give himself away. Waiting, because he knew what came next._

_Paul moved his thumb in lazy circles on the jut of Daryl’s hip and pressed his lips to the knobby bone at the base of Daryl’s neck. “I love you,” he whispered into Daryl’s skin._

_“I love you,” Paul whispered between slow, gentle kisses across Daryl’s shoulders, along the edges of his scars. “I love you. I love you, Daryl.”_

_Daryl can’t remember when this started, but he remembered how he’d felt the first time Paul had whispered to him in the night - flushed and cold all at once, afraid down to his bones, because Paul was sweet and irritatingly perfect and too good, too good for Daryl, and one day Paul would realize that._

_“And I know you love me too, you asshole.”_

_That first time, and every one of the countless times afterward, Daryl’s heart had ached with gratitude, that Paul understood him so well, better than he would ever understand himself. Understood that Daryl couldn’t ever hear those words in the light of day, that Daryl would run from them, even if every atom of his body wanted to stay, because that was what was written on his bones._

_Paul let the words nestle here instead, between them in the dark, where Daryl could pretend he hadn’t heard, didn’t know. And Daryl loved him for it. Daryl loved him._

——————

Just after dark had well and truly fallen, after the Hilltop residents had retreated inside, two tiny pinpricks of light appeared in the distance, dim and otherworldly through the snow.

Daryl thought for sure he’d finally gone insane. So desperate to see a sign of Paul’s return that he was hallucinating it. He blinked and blinked, willing the lights to either go away, or come closer. 

They came closer. Car headlights, Daryl realized, but coming up the long road to the Hilltop much too fast. Too fast for the state of the roads after all that snow. 

_Too fast. Too fast for everything to be all right._

“It’s them!” Daryl yelled. Lights flicked on in Barrington House. “It’s them, come on!”

Daryl held a hand over his eyes, trying to keep the flakes away so he could see. The car— _no, a truck, not the one they’d left in_ —fishtailed treacherously in the slush, the headlights cutting drunken paths in the dark.

The guard tower shook, and suddenly Rick was beside him, a rifle on his shoulder. “It’s not the car. Might not be them.”

“Gotta be,” Daryl snapped. He shouted down to the guards, “Open the damn gates!”

“Daryl,” Rick hissed in his ear. “Be smart.”

“The fuck you on about?” The day, the cold and the _worry_ , caught up to Daryl in a crashing wave. “Who the fuck would be attackin’ us in a snowstorm? Open the gates, dammit!”

“Daryl! It’s not safe, you know it. Just wait a minute—.” A steadying hand on his shoulder, so unwelcome Daryl flung it off as if it had burned.

“Nah! Nah get off me, if it was ‘Chonne you—.”

Not fifty feet from the gates, the truck came to a sudden lurching halt, stuck in the muck of the dirt road. The engine roared and the wheels spun as the driver tried to free it. 

Then the driver’s side door flung open, and—

“Help!” It was Tara. Daryl felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. “Help, I need help!”

“Open the gates!” Rick shouted.

Daryl didn't know how he got down from the guard tower, if he climbed down or fell or jumped, but he was scrambling to his feet in the slush, pants soaked to the thighs, running as best he could on the slick ground for the gates. Rick was beside him, Michonne and Carl running fast from the Barrington House. They all skidded and wobbled through the muck, trying to keep their footing.

“Help me!” Tara screamed, shrill and panicked. “Hurry, god, help us, please!”

Daryl reached the gates as they began to open and squeezed through the moment the gap was wide enough. He felt Rick on his heels, heard Wes and Alex shouting behind him. Rick and Michonne, Carl and Enid, they all ran for the truck as fast as the snow and mud allowed, but Daryl was first. If he lost his balance in the slick, he didn’t notice.

“Please!”

As he made his way down the hill, he could finally see Tara clearly in the driver’s seat. The window was open, and her wet hair was plastered to her forehead. She was looking down at the seat beside her, frantically saying something Daryl couldn’t make out. Then she turned and stuck her head back out the window. 

There was blood on her face.

“Help,” she screamed again, and then her too-wide eyes fell on Daryl.

“Oh god, oh no, Daryl I….”

And Daryl knew, then.

_No._

All the air in Daryl’s body, all the substance of him seemed to vanish, blinked out of existence. He simply stopped running, skidding to a messy halt. Rick and Michonne and Carl and Wes ran around him, ran for the truck, but Daryl couldn’t move. 

_No. Not Paul, no._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Paul turned his head a little and rested his cheek in Daryl’s palm, his eyes falling shut._
> 
>  
> 
> _“Nah, nah stay with me,” Daryl begged, jostling Paul’s face in his hands. “Talk to me, c’mon.”_
> 
>  
> 
> _“Sorry,” Paul murmured, so soft Daryl had to bend in to hear him. “I’ve had a pretty shitty day.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be times throughout the story where Daryl refers to Paul as Jesus in his flashbacks. Hopefully this isn't too confusing.
> 
> I legitimately hate this chapter, but it's necessary to get where we're going. Please don't judge me if it's terrible.
> 
> Beta for this chapter by tynderfox, thank you!

“Get the doctor!”

“Help me lift him out, here—"

“Watch his leg!”

“Shit, I need a hand on it!”

——————

_When Daryl was five, he’d nearly drowned._

_Merle had taken him to the local swimming hole, a swampy, muddy spring in the woods near the trailer park, claiming he’d teach Daryl how to swim. Daryl had been excited, until he saw the murky black water that ran deep into the ground._

_“I don’ wanna.”_

_“Aw, look at that, little Darylina’s afraid!”_

_“I ain’t afraid!” Daryl puffed out his bony little-boy chest, glaring up and up at his big brother. “I jus’ don’ wanna.”_

_Merle chuckled, patted him on the head. As soon as Daryl turned his back, Merle picked him up and thrown him into the deepest part of the water._

_And then there was no air, no air anywhere, just the stinking foul water that enveloped Daryl, swallowed him up. Daryl thought he could see Merle above the surface, a blurry blonde head backlit by the Georgia sun. Thought maybe he could hear him, a muddled shouting somewhere in the watery wub-blub of this place, this place where Daryl was going to die._

_Then Daryl was too deep, too deep to see or hear anything, and the water was in his lungs._

_Merle jumped in and pulled him out eventually. Cradled Daryl against his bare sunburned chest, hammered him on the back as Daryl hacked and spewed and sobbed._

_“That’s how you gotta do it,” Merle soothed him, “all in. Just jump in, and you’re either gonna swim or you’re gonna die.”_

——————

Daryl was forty-eight now, hadn’t thought about that day in almost as many years, but right now he might as well have been five again, drowning.

Everything was too slow. Far away.

Carl turning from the truck, running back toward the gates and calling for Dr. Carson.

Tara, rushing around to the passenger side, shouting at Rick and Michonne, “His leg! You have to keep the pressure on it!”

“I’m trying!” Michonne, and there was hysteria threading through her words. Daryl felt himself float farther away, farther down, where none of this could reach him.

“…Daryl…DARYL!”

Enid’s face swam in front of him. Dimly, Daryl realized her small hands were on his shoulders, gripping his coat. Her mouth formed the words _come on, come on_ , and it looked like she was shouting, but the sound seemed to float away.

Daryl opened his mouth to explain that he couldn’t, he _couldn’t_ , because none of this could be happening, because he was drowning. No words would come.

Enid gave him a hard shake. Daryl moved with it like a limp doll.

“We need your help!” So, so far away, warbled and muffled. “Daryl! Snap out of it! He needs you!”

 _Just jump in_ , Merle whispered to him from so long ago. _You’re either gonna swim, or you’re gonna die._

In a rush, the world slammed back into clear, horrifying focus.

They were dragging Paul from the truck, stumbling and sliding in the slush. Rick held Paul up by the arms, Michonne and Tara at his legs, the two women fumbling with something bloody-looking that Daryl’s mind shied away from. 

Rick slipped and went down on one knee, bringing them all down to the sloppy ground.

“Shit! Shit, it’s coming loose!”

“Keep his leg up! Enid, help me—!”

Daryl caught a glimpse of Paul’s face amidst the chaos, and then he was falling to his knees, shouldering everyone out of the way.

The moment Daryl touched him, he felt a little bit of air seep back into his lungs. _Paul._ Daryl ran his fingers across Paul’s forehead, into his hair, cradled the back of his skull and lifted it up from the ground to rest on Rick’s leg. 

Paul’s skin was pale, his lips tinged with purple, his hair drenched in cold, sticky sweat. His breath rattled in and out of his lips, sucking and crackling, chest heaving beneath his leather coat.

A sheet was wrapped around his right leg, held tight with mismatched bits of rope. It was soaked in blood, absolutely soaked, seeping red onto the snow. 

Daryl felt his lips begin to quiver, felt the thick heat of tears in his throat. He swallowed, trying to force them back. Snowflakes fell onto Paul’s face, in his eyelashes, melting instantly into tiny crystalline drops. 

_Wet. Cold._ Paul shouldn’t be wet or cold, not now. Daryl blew on his fingers to warm them and carefully wiped the drops away.

“Daryl.” Rick hissed. “Daryl, we need to get him inside.” 

Paul’s eyes fluttered and blinked open, drifting sleepily around.

“Paul!” Daryl cried. “Hey, hey, I’m here, look at me.”

Blue, blue eyes lit on Rick, on the sky, taking in nothing until Paul's gaze slipped over to Daryl, and then they snapped into focus. 

“There you are.” Daryl cupped Paul’s face in both hands. “There you are, hey.”

Paul took a shallow rattling breath, as if to speak. “Nah, shhh,” Daryl whispered as he moved his thumb over Paul’s mouth. “You don’t gotta talk, s’alright, we gotcha.”

Paul smiled weakly, just the tiniest twitch of his lips. “Hi,” he mouthed, no sound at all.

Daryl felt a few tears slip out over his cheeks, burning hot in the freezing air. 

Paul’s brow crinkled a bit, squinting up at Daryl. “Don’t cry,” he whispered, “don’t cry, please don’t.”

“Oh fuck you,” Daryl gasped through a rough sob, sloppily wiping his eyes and nose with the back of his hand, making a mess of his face and earning another trembling smile from Paul. “S’your fault, ya little shit, what the hell did ya do to yourself?”

Paul turned his head a little and rested his cheek in Daryl’s palm, his eyes falling shut.

“Nah, nah stay with me,” Daryl begged, jostling Paul’s face in his hands. “Talk to me, c’mon.”

“Sorry,” Paul murmured, so soft Daryl had to bend in to hear him. “I’ve had a pretty shitty day.” 

——————

_“Where’s Sasha and Rosita?”_

_Daryl wasn’t sure what he expected from Jesus, why he’d sought him out the first place. He just knew the air felt wrong, everything was wrong, and now Sasha and Rosita were missing and Jesus always seemed to be the one with all the answers around here._

_He definitely didn’t expect Jesus’ face to fall, his whole body to still, brought down by the sudden weight of what looked an awful lot like grief._

_Jesus tilted his head toward the front door. “Not here,” he whispered. He moved to grab the door handle, looking back to see that Daryl was following him._

_They walked out together into the sticky night air. Jesus kept a casual pace, but Daryl could see the tension in his shoulders, could tell he was consciously slowing his steps so as not to attract attention to them._

_“What’s goin’ on?”_

_Jesus glanced back toward Barrington. Daryl followed his gaze and saw Gregory in the one lit window, half concealed behind the filmy curtains. Watching them._

_Jesus grabbed his arm, spun him back around. “Don’t look. Keep walking.”_

_Every inch of Daryl screamed to stop, to hold his ground and force Jesus to explain. Only the sadness he’d seen in Jesus’ eyes back in the house kept Daryl following after him without question._

_After they had rounded the side of Jesus’ trailer, hidden from prying eyes, Jesus stopped and faced him, arms folded over his chest._

_“They went after Negan.”_

_Daryl fingers tightened on the strap of his crossbow. His feet shifted, his lips curled against his teeth, feeling the urge to pick up their trail, to GO, to do something to stop all this instead of sitting around sharpening knives and picking cucumbers and waiting to die. Killing Negan was the only think he ever thought about anymore, it seemed; he couldn’t imagine, couldn’t allow that the man would die any other way but by Daryl’s own hand, slow and suffering._

_“Daryl, if you even think of following them I swear to God I will choke you out right here where you stand.”_

_Jesus stared at him, eyes fierce and sad and weary all at once. Daryl realized for the first time how exhausted Jesus looked, worn thin like a rag that had been set to cleaning up messes one too many times._

_Daryl cast his eyes down, a little embarrassed by his transparency. “Wasn’t gonna.”_

_“Liar.”_

_Just a year ago, Daryl would have gotten angry at that, come back with a retort, started a fight with Jesus on principle. Because Daryl Dixon was a lot of terrible things, hot-tempered among them, but he wasn’t a liar. Not when it mattered._

_But that year felt like a lifetime, a lifetime of death and pain and asshole sons of bitches. There were so many things to be angry about now, and Daryl was so, so tired. Too tired to aim any of that anger at a little wide-eyed sneaky-assed ninja who didn’t mean any harm._

_“Was thinkin’ about it,” Daryl amended. “But I ain’t gonna.”_

_“I’m sorry Daryl, I didn’t mean to…” Jesus waved a hand around, brow furrowed, like he was trying to pick the words he wanted out of the air, “…to accuse you. Or assume. I guess.” Jesus rubbed the creased skin between his eyes, as if to soothe a headache. “Just…sorry. I’ve had a pretty shitty day.”_

_“Everythin’ all right?”_

_Jesus sighed, and Daryl was struck again by how he’d never seen this Jesus before—worn down, defeated, at a loss for words. It pinched something in Daryl’s chest. Daryl had come to think of Jesus and his reserved, endearing ways as a calm in the storm, peace in the battle. Calm, peace…nothing Daryl would ever have, but nice things to think about. Good things to know existed somewhere in this fucked-to-hell world._

_“Not really,” Jesus breathed, looking away and back toward where they’d walked from, where Barrington would be if the trailer wasn’t in the way. “But when was the last time anything was all right?”_

_“Wanna…talk about it? Or somethin’?”_

_Jesus looked at him sharply then, searching Daryl’s face with those big eyes, those eyes that kept him pinned every time, unable to look away for the life of him. Daryl felt his cheeks heat up. Talk about it…for fuck’s sake, where did that come from?_

_“No, not yet.” Jesus shook his head. “But thank you for the offer. I—” Jesus gave a jaw-cracking yawn, and then blinked like it had caught him off guard. “I need to sleep. Obviously.”_

_Daryl felt the corner of his mouth twitching, realizing with a jolt that he had been about to smile. The sensation was so foreign, he reached up and rubbed at his lips._

_“All right,” Daryl murmured, and headed for the steps of the trailer. As he reached for the handle, Jesus murmured from behind him, “Daryl.”_

_Daryl turned back._

_“Thank you.”_

_Daryl had no idea what Jesus was thanking him for, but Jesus’ eyes were wide and soft and warm again and Daryl thought maybe, maybe for once he’d done something right._

——————

Paul began to cough weakly, pressing his lips together to try and keep it at bay, his face screwing up in pain.

“Hey, easy, it’s all right,” Daryl soothed as he laid a hand on Paul’s chest like he could ease him somehow, “Told you not to talk, shh—”

Paul looked up at him. He looked scared now. 

“Daryl, I…I lo—”

A deep cracking cough shook Paul’s whole body, and his eyes rolled back in his head. 

“No!” Daryl couldn’t stop a ragged cry from tearing out of his mouth as Paul went limp, head flopping to the side, a heavy dead weight in his hands.

“Got it,” Tara panted, “I got it. It’s tight now, let’s go!”

Daryl scooped Paul up, away from everyone, cradling his small frame carefully. Paul’s head slumped onto Daryl’s shoulder; he was so boneless and wrong-feeling, Daryl thought he might be sick. He began to walk, one trudging step and another and another through the swirling snow, the gates an impossible distance away, his arms and shoulders and back and all of him screaming already. He pressed his lips into Paul’s wet hair.

A song from before floated nonsensically through Daryl’s head, an old country song that played often on the shitty local radio— _He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother…._

Tears poured down Daryl’s face in earnest, blurring his vision as he stumbled through the muck. Paul wasn’t his brother. Paul was his… _his_. Paul was his. Paul was everything Daryl had, all of him that was left.

And he was _heavy._

Suddenly, mercifully, Carl and Dr. Carson appeared with a stretcher, holding it flat as they approached. Daryl laid Paul down as gently as he could, but Paul’s arms sprawled out and his head fell at a strange angle and Dr. Carson’s eyes went wide as he surveyed Paul’s body and Daryl thought maybe the harsh, wounded-animal sounds he was hearing were coming from him, he couldn’t tell.

“Go!” Dr. Carson shouted. “Go now, I need him inside now!” 

—————

Daryl stood in the doorway of the medical trailer, trying rying to find the place where he was drowning again, because anything was better than this.

“Tell me what happened,” Dr. Carson demanded, snapping on gloves as Tara, Rick and Michonne lifted Paul onto the bed, Carl and Enid pulling the stretcher away.

Tara’s voice was thick with tears. “He fell in the water. Just a little bit after we left, stupid shit, there were bags hanging in the trees above the river and he tried to climb out to get them and he fell. He came up coughing and he just…he wouldn’t stop coughing, the whole run, I had to find him a pillow to cough into so he didn’t draw the walkers. He kept saying he was okay but it kept getting worse and worse…”

Dr. Carson ripped Paul’s shirt open, buttons flying, and laid a stethoscope on his chest. After listening a moment he winced and he pulled it back, turning to the sheet and starting to unwrap it, blood smearing on his gloves. “And the leg?” 

“It’s my fault,” Tara sobbed now. “It’s my fault.” She turned her eyes to Daryl. “Oh god Daryl, I’m so sorry.”

Daryl could only stare at her. If he tried to speak, he was pretty sure he would start screaming and never stop.

“I…I crashed,” Tara whispered, sniffling. “I crashed the car. We weren’t ten miles out…It was so slick. The window…he didn't have his seatbelt on, he was laying down and he just—“

A sharp cough interrupted her. Daryl realized Paul’s eyes were open, blank and unseeing as he gasped wetly for air. Daryl pushed past Rick, bent over Paul and smoothed his hair back from his face, but his eyes had fallen closed again. Daryl nearly screamed in frustration; caught it behind his teeth. 

Dr. Carson pulled back the last of the soaked-red sheet. The room went quiet. 

Enid gagged loudly and ran from the trailer. Carl followed her.

“Daryl,” Michonne whispered. “Don’t look.”

Daryl Dixon was a lot of terrible things, and among them, he was a bad listener.

———————

_It was hot._

_Stinking, dripping, miserably hot. Hot like the hottest Georgia heat Daryl had ever felt in his life. Too hot to breathe, to move, to do anything at all. Daryl had tried to help Maggie and the others with the Hilltop garden—she was almost ready to pop, could hardly walk or bend over—but they’d called it a day after only an hour, everyone gasping and soaked in sweat._

_Daryl banged open the door to Paul’s trailer (their trailer, it was their trailer Paul kept saying, and once in a while Daryl believed him) and immediately kicked away his boots, ripped his socks off and threw them outside. He began stripping his sweat-soaked clothes—pants, vest, sleeveless shirt, until he stood there in only his boxers, enjoying the sensation of his sweat chilling on his skin in the slightly cooler air of the trailer._

_“Well hey there.”_

_Daryl jumped; couldn’t help it, surprises never went over well with him, even welcome ones._

_Paul lay star-fished on the bed, arms and legs as far from each other as they could get, wearing only the thinnest, most hole-ridden pair of boxers he owned (and Daryl knew, he’d teased Paul about them, saying he’d best be careful or his balls would sneak through one of them holes and get twisted up and then Paul would throw them away for sure, and Paul had jammed the boxers on Daryl’s head and Daryl had tackled him half-blinded and tickled his ribs and they’d laughed and laughed until they lay on the floor in a heap wiping tears from their eyes, and Daryl had wondered if this was what being happy was)._

_Paul’s hair was pulled up away from his long neck to fan over the pillow, and his pale skin sparkled with sweat everywhere—on the delicate line of his nose, in the hollow of his throat, in the groove of his hips._

_Daryl felt gut-punched. Paul tilted his head toward Daryl, eyes heavy-lidded. “Thought you were gardening.”_

_“Thought you was trainin’.”_

_“Too hot.”_

_“Yeah.”_

_Daryl walked over to the bed. Paul bent his leg up, making a place for Daryl to sit, and Daryl was suddenly mesmerized by the vulnerable protrusion of knee bones, the flex and curve of calf muscles. Daryl settled on the bed and laid a gentle kiss to the top of Paul’s knee, trailing his fingers through the sparse dark hair that clung to his leg. Paul sighed and stretched a bit, squirming like a sleepy cat._

_Daryl was glad for the dark of the trailer, the curtains blocking out the light and all the rest of the world. He was glad even for the heat, because it made his mind dead slow, kept quiet all the heartsick that never seemed to leave him in peace._

_He was glad that Paul didn’t seem to need words from him most of the time. There weren’t words for this, for Paul, for how he made Daryl feel._

_Daryl leaned his his cheek on the flat of Paul’s knee and let his fingers slide up, caressing alabaster skin that never saw the sun. The coarse hair stopped about half-way up Paul’s thigh and after that the skin was perfectly smooth, so soft it tickled Daryl’s fingertips. He traced lazy little circles, boldly inching closer and closer to where those ridiculous boxers were caught in the crease of Paul’s hip, until Paul shivered and goosebumps rose under Daryl’s touch._

_“Ah!” Daryl glanced up; Paul’s neck was arched back, eyes squinted shut, his mouth open around a smile._

_Paul was perfect and too much and not enough, more than life owed Daryl by a long margin, and Daryl had to look away. He turned his eyes back to his fingers, sliding them carefully under the hem of Paul’s boxers to stroke the paper-thin, baby-smooth skin there._

_“Daryl,” Paul gasped, “Daryl, god, just—.” Paul laid a hand over Daryl’s, stilling his movements, looking down at Daryl with heavy dark eyes. “I can’t believe these words are even coming out of my mouth, but I think it’s too hot out to fuck right now.”_

_Daryl blushed and dipped his head down, letting his hair cover his face. “Wasn’t thinkin’ about that,” he mumbled._

_Slim fingers brushed his hair back, tucked it carefully behind his ear. Paul smiled up at him, tender and sweet, and Daryl was so unworthy, so undeserving of this, and God help him but he would never, ever give it back._

_“Lay down with me.” Paul slid over, moving his leg out from under Daryl’s fingers, leaving a place for Daryl on the narrow bed. “Don’t touch me though,” he chuckled, “it’s too fucking hot.”_

_Daryl stretched out on his side, facing Paul, carefully keeping his sweaty limbs to himself. Paul reached down between them and linked his index finger with Daryl’s._

_“Thought you said don’t touch.”_

_“Shh. Sleep.” Paul breathed, settling into the bed, eyes blinking shut as the drowsy heat settled down on them._

_Sleep pulled Daryl down fast. Just as the last of the world fell away, he felt a gentle squeeze at his finger._

_“Love you.”_

———————

From mid-thigh to below the knee, Paul’s leg was ripped to shreds. Blood— _too much, too much blood_ —oozed sluggishly over jagged edges of raw flesh.

Daryl whirled around and stumbled blindly away, out the open door of the trailer. He fell to his knees in the snow and threw up, over and over, until he was dry-heaving and spitting out bile. 

_Too much blood._ Daryl lay crumpled in the snow, drifting, as all the blood of the last few years flashed before his eyes. _Dale. Hershel. Beth. Abraham. Glenn._ The blood of his friends, his family, literally and figuratively on Daryl’s hands. A river of blood, an ocean, and somehow Daryl had always managed to surface, to find his footing and wade through it, but Daryl knew this new wave of blood was going to be the one that pulled him under.

Behind him, the wooden steps of the trailer creaked. Daryl turned his head slightly, enough to see Michonne silhouetted in the doorway.

“You need to come back inside.”

“Is…” Daryl’s voice was a broken rasp; he wet his foul-tasting lips and tried again. “Is he…?”

“The doctor’s trying. We're trying.” She had blood, _Paul’s blood_ , all up and down her arms, on her face, soaking the front of her shirt. Her mouth trembled. “But you need to come back inside.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god, I'm sorry about ending this chapter on another cliffhanger! I'll try to stop doing that...

**Author's Note:**

> Lots more to come people! I can't promise an update schedule, but I'll do my best to post regularly!
> 
> Comments are my motivation!
> 
> Tumblr: @in-case-you-get-thirsty


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